The alarm went off at four in the morning.
Song Qingci crawled off her mattress. The springs sagged into a hollow, and the crack in the bed frame dug into her back—she'd been sore all night, already numb. The basement had no heating. December cold seeped through the cracks in the walls, stiffening her fingers. She rubbed them together repeatedly before she could feel them again.
She washed her face with a basin of cold water collected beneath the grate. The water was bitingly cold. When she finished, her lips were purple. She pinned her hair up with a pencil, put on her blue polo shirt, pulled on the olive green coat, and left.
Queens was still dark. The streetlights cast a dim yellow glow; a thin layer of ice coated the ground. She walked to the back door of the Chinese restaurant and knocked three times. The owner, Old Zhou, opened the door and glanced at her. "You're here? Thirty reservations today. Plenty of dishes to wash."
"All right."
The kitchen was tiny—two stoves, one sink, a row of grease-stained woks hanging on the wall. Her station was in front of the sink, a mountain of plates and bowls piled before her. The water heater was broken. Only cold water. She poured dish soap into the basin; foam floated on the surface. She plunged her hands in. It felt like needles.
The first hour, her fingers ached. The second hour, the ache went numb. By the third hour, her fingers no longer felt like her own.
At eight, she dried her hands on her apron and pulled off her rubber gloves. Her fingers had soaked for four hours; the skin was wrinkled like an old woman's. She rubbed them together. Nothing.
Old Zhou handed her a paper bag. "Two buns. Take them to eat."
"Thanks, Uncle Zhou."
"Don't mention it. You're thin as a bamboo pole. Don't wear yourself out."
She stuffed the buns in her pocket and hurried to the Chinese supermarket. It was on Main Street, crates of oranges and apples out front, their skins stiff with cold. The owner was surnamed Lin, from Fujian, loud but kind-hearted.
"Qingci, we got a new shipment today. Help me put on the price tags."
"Okay."
She stood behind the register, scanning, bagging, taking money, making change. Her movements were quick; she barely looked at the keys. Lin watched her, clicking her tongue. "Were you an office worker before? Your hands don't look like they've done rough work."
"I used to stay at home."
"Family money?"
"No." She smiled faintly. "I just didn't have to work."
She didn't say that those days of "not having to work" had been ten thousand times harder than this.
At five in the afternoon, the supermarket closed. Her legs were swollen. When she crouched to tie her shoes, her knees wouldn't bend. She leaned against the wall, pounding her calves until the blood started flowing again, then stood.
She still had tutoring in the evening—a Chinese family in Flushing with an eight-year-old daughter who needed to learn Mandarin. Twenty dollars an hour, her best-paying job.
She took the 7 train to Flushing. The car was crowded. She stood by the door, pulling a cold bun from her pocket and eating it in small bites. Across from her sat a girl about her age, wearing a pink nurse's uniform, asleep on her boyfriend's shoulder. His arm was around her, his other hand holding his phone, watching a video.
Song Qingci watched them and suddenly remembered herself three years ago. She used to fall asleep in Lu Yan's car, too, but she never dared lean on his shoulder. She would curl up in the passenger seat, afraid to touch him, afraid to annoy him.
The train arrived. She got off.
Tutoring lasted until nine. The little girl's name was Angela. She was smart but couldn't sit still. Song Qingci taught her to write the character for "mother." After three tries, Angela lost patience.
"Teacher Song, where's your mother?"
"In heaven."
"Heaven? Is she an angel?"
Song Qingci paused, then smiled. "Yes. She's an angel."
"Do you miss her?"
"Yes."
"I miss my mom too. She's on a business trip. She won't be back until next week." Angela leaned on the table, drawing a small figure on her paper. "Teacher Song, are you scared when you sleep alone at night?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm too busy to be scared."
Angela didn't understand, but she nodded and kept drawing.
After class, Song Qingci took the subway back to Queens. It was past ten-thirty when she arrived. She walked back to the basement, opened the door—the six-square-meter room was cold as an icebox. She switched on the lamp. Its small halo of light just reached the door-plank desk.
She sat down and opened her book.
The final exam for Quantitative Trading was next week. She still had three chapters left. Her pen scratched across the paper, the sound clear in the quiet room.
Rats scurried in the corners. She was used to it now. Almost comforted—at least she wasn't the only living thing in this basement.
At one in the morning, her eyelids grew heavy. She stood and paced twice, splashed cold water on her face, and went back to reading.
At two in the morning, she finally gave out. She lay her head on the desk, cheek against the pages, the pen slipping from her hand to the floor.
Outside the grate, a pair of leather shoes stopped. Someone stood there for a long time, but didn't knock, didn't make a sound.
Song Qingci didn't know.
She only knew she'd made one hundred and forty-seven dollars that day. After rent, she had eighty-seven left. Enough for a week of expired bread. Enough for a monthly subway pass. Enough to live in this city for seven more days.
Her fingers twitched in her sleep, as if still turning pages.
The lamp stayed on all night.
Outside the grate, the leather shoes finally left. A cigarette butt remained on the ground, still smoking.
The wind blew. The smoke went out.
The night in Queens was long. But it would always brighten.